


Paint You Up

by jeleania



Series: Whumptober 2020 [1]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Abduction, BAMF Noctis Lucis Caelum, Blood and Violence, Gen, Hurt Gladiolus Amicitia, Implied/Referenced Torture, Lucis Caelums are dragons, Whumptober 2020, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-10-01
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:29:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26616721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jeleania/pseuds/jeleania
Summary: “Whatever you want, I’m not giving it to you.”“Oh, I’m not demanding anything of you. You’re just a means to an end. The prince is watching and listening to everything. He gets to decide when I stop playing you. He gives us what we want, we let you boys go. Simple and easy.”
Relationships: Gladiolus Amicitia & Noctis Lucis Caelum
Series: Whumptober 2020 [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1936261
Kudos: 36





	Paint You Up

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt No 1.  
> Waking Up Restrained | Shackled | Hanging

* * *

Gladiolus woke to his nose itching, a persistent annoying sensation just at the tip. Refusing to open his eyes in that half-asleep fuzzy state, he wrinkled it. Tried to rub it with his upper lip. Then he gave in, his hand reaching for -

He couldn’t move his arm.

Amber eyes snapped open. Their gaze flicked around the room - unfamiliar and harshly lit, bare walls and concrete floor. An old looking door was a few meters in front of him. A video camera on a tripod was the only thing save him in the stark space, a little red light glowing at him. His head jerked upward, absently noting the dull ache in his neck. His arms were chained to the ceiling, spread a bit further than the width of his shoulders. A glance down and a jerk of his legs found them also restrained, allowed to hang limply below him but chained to the ground. If he stretched, he could barely brush his big toe against the concrete floor, the ground chilly even through his sock.

Well, this was auspicious. 

He was also missing his jacket and shirt and shoes.

Those better not have been thrown away. That shirt was new. And he liked that jacket. The shoes, he was going to replace soon, but he still hoped they were around. Harder to escape captivity with no shoes.

The seventeen year old Shield glowered into the middle distance. His head ached, the focal point of the pain behind his right ear. A few careful breaths revealed his ribs seemed fine. His shoulders and upper back were already beginning to ache from their uncomfortable position. There were little aches here and there - when he strained his neck to look, he found darkening bruises. He was a little chilled and thirsty but not hungry yet. So he must not have been out long since he had eaten a late lunch around three in the afternoon -

Lunch with Noctis.

Shit, where was Noctis? 

He thought back - they had met after school, Gladiolus walking the few blocks to wait outside his prince’s school. They had wanted to try out a restaurant one of the Glaives had recommended. It had taken a while to find it - they had gotten a little lost then found a marketplace that distracted them before finding the place. The food had been amazing. They had been on the way home, switching trains in one of the underground subway stations, when it had happened. Gladiolus had been standing at a urinal in the bathroom when some guy hit him over the head. They had half-dragged him dazed and staggering out the restroom - he remembered seeing Noctis grappling with a man - the prince shouting his name and getting hit in his distracted state - then pain had flared and everything had gone dark.

Some Shield he had been.

Gladiolus breathed deep, tried to calm the sudden pounding of his heart and the shame burning in his gut. He could beat himself up later. As Crown Prince, Noctis was far more valuable a hostage than Gladiolus was. Whoever took them would have more leverage if they kept the younger boy alive. The teenaged Amicitia closed his eyes, reached within. There, newly given only a month ago but already so familiar, was Noctis’s magic, was the Bond formed when they exchanged Vows, when he had officially become Sword Sworn and Retinue and Shield. It hummed like lightning against his bones, anxious but not in serious pain. 

His prince was still alive.

He wasn’t a complete failure of a Shield. Not today.

Now Gladiolus just had to figure out how to get out of these shackles, find his charge, and get them the fuck home to the Citadel. 

He was tugging at the restraints - thick manacles around his wrists and steel chains so new he seen them shine dully in the bright lights - when noise came from the door. A key scraped, the knob clicked, and the slab silently swung inward. In sauntered a man, head completely shaved and features unremarkable, ruddy skin and a three piece suit. There was a glint in his eyes that Gladiolus didn’t like, cruel and eager and hungry. Behind him trooped a pair of men, bulky with muscle and blank of expression, both with at least one gun or knife on their person. They positioned themselves against the left and right walls, clearly on guard duty.

All had a patch pinned onto their right breast of their shirts - an upside down crown dripping red on a pale gray field. 

Rex Diripio - a terrorist group that had been causing trouble since the start of King Mors’s rule. 

Great, just great.

“Ah, young Amicitia, how are you enjoying the accommodations?” crooned Baldy.

Not in the mood to play games, Gladiolus stated, “Whatever you want, I’m not giving it to you.”

Baldy smirked, shook his head slowly. “Oh, I’m not demanding anything of you. You’re just a means to an end.” He lightly touched the video camera. “You see, the darling little prince is watching and listening to everything. Just a few rooms away and just -”

“If you hurt him, I’ll gut you.” growled the young Shield.

Airly flicking his wrist, Baldy waved off his words. “Oh, he’s roughed up a bit, didn’t want to come quietly, but we’re not going to hurt him.” That hungry glint was worrisomely bright in his eyes. “Oh no, he just gets to decide when I stop playing you. He gives us what we want, we let you boys go. Simple and easy.”

So that was how it was gonna be. This was going to suck. But Gladiolus would take it. Better him than his just-hit-teenage-years prince. 

Lifting his chin, Gladio stared sternly into the video camera lens. “Noct, don’t give in to them. No matter what they do to me, don’t give up. We just have to wait until Cor and the guards find us. I can hold out, you can too.”

Baldy grinned like his birthday had come early. “Oh, it’s so much fun when they’re defiant like this.”

Gladiolus didn’t bother to snip back. But he did feel a trickle of dread curl in his gut as Baldy circled around him, behind him where he couldn’t see a blow coming. He couldn’t stop the startled twitch when cold fingers stroked his upper back like an undead lover’s caress. 

“I see you’ve started growing in your wings, little Amicitia.” Baldy crooned, fingertips tracing the bare bones outline of his tattoo on his left bicep. It was still so new, the beginning of his wings granted to him the day after Noctis’s magic. His father had taken him to the same artist whose family line had been inking the Amicitia Shields for at least fifty generations. The fact this creep was groping his tattoo, his mark of loyalty to his prince, made Gladiolus feel oddly violated.

Breath was hot against his ear. “Let me pretty them up for you.”

The presence of Baldy stepped away, still somewhere behind him. Straining his neck, Gladio looked over his shoulder. He glimpsed another video camera and two tables in the back of the room. 

Tables full of knives and tools and astrals knew what else.

This was going to really suck.

* * *

Noctis jerked in his chair, trying to find some leverage or give or fucking something. He ignored the bruises on his forearms from the pressure of the hard metal chains around his limbs. He disregarded the mild burns layered under them where he had burned away the original ropes. He refused to acknowledge the goons around him, both to guard and to keep him from looking away.

Away from the large screen television playing the live video feed in front of him. It was quartered into four smaller screens - two at Gladio’s back from different close-range angles, one from behind and above to get the whole picture, and one focused on Gladio’s face. They showed him every strip of skin peeled off, the flesh red and shiny. They showed each exacting cut, the marks mimicking feathers both simple and complex. They showed burns with the blowtorch and lashes from a flail and bruises from a hammer from the base of the neck to the top of his hips. 

Some of those injuries would scar.

It was too late for potions to wipe the flesh clean.

Noctis was going to enjoy killing that monster. 

The young teen wiggled in the chains again. Each forearm and calf, bound to the arms and forelegs of the chair, were aching with strain. The grip of two of the goons, one on his hair, another on his shoulders, kept him from tipping it over like the second chair he’d escaped from. The fuckers had learned and adapted.

Over the TV speakers, he heard Gladio try to hold a scream behind his clenched jaw.

Noctis snarled through the gag in his mouth.

His fingers clenched on the end of the chair arm. He could feel it splinter under his grip, the sturdy wood giving under his claws. He was too furious to keep the few physical draconic traits hidden under illusions as his family had done for generations.

He stilled. Wiggled a splinter digging into his fingertips.

The wooden chair.

Noctis closed his eyes, taking a few seconds to call himself an idiot.

Wood would burn.

So did a Lucis Caelum’s flesh for all that they were dragons locked away in human skin. 

More importantly, if he did this right, the goons would burn too. Much easier than he would.

This was going to suck.

But he couldn’t wait for rescue anymore. Gladio couldn’t wait.

And he so wanted to make these scum suffer for hurting His Shield.

He opened his eyes. Reached for the magic raging within him.

And set himself aflame.

A corona of fire burst to life with a whomp. It eagerly consumed the wood of the chair, the shirt and jeans and shoes he wore, the flesh of the two goons who had been restraining him. His arms back and legs took damage, the skin becoming tight with forming burns. But not as severely or quickly as the goons, both who had thumped lifeless to the ground.

Distantly he heard the shouting of the other two goons. Saw the door fly open as more goons scrambled into the room. Felt something punch-punch his stomach and lower chest.

Allowing the flames to flicker out, Noctis stood, red hot chains sliding down his legs to coil at his feet. The ones around his arms he held in his hands. He breathed deep through his nose, exhaled hard through his mouth. Ashes and cinders fluttered free from the cloth gag that had survived as well as the restraining goons had.

Eight goons stood around him, arrayed in a half circle between him and the open door. Hands held knives or handguns, faces pale and eyes wide. He could nearly smell their fear over the scent of well-cooked goon.

He bared his teeth in a rictus of a grin.

Then he moved.

Using the chains like whips, he lashed out, striking one, two, three in the face and torso. Someone tried to yank one of the chains from his hands. So he let them take it, the heat weakened metal snapping from the cuff still around his left wrist. Followed after with a pounce he’d learned from the citadel’s cats. 

The razor sharp claws that tore out the man’s throat - that move was all his own. 

Appropriating the goon’s knife, Noctis lunged for the next one. Ducked a punch, shoved the long knife heart-deep into the helpfully open armpit. Stole a pistol from the man’s waist as he slumped to the ground. Bullets slammed into three more goons - headshot, throat, and that third managed to dodge just enough to get the metal slug in his shoulder. Someone tried for close ranged, surging close from his left. Dropping the gun with its empty clip, Noctis stepped back just enough to let the goon slide in front of him, then the remaining chain still around his right wrist was yanked around the man’s neck. A jump upward for more height, a jerk and twist, and the goon went limp with a broken neck. 

Noctis surveyed the rest of his foes.

Shoulder shot goon, goon two with a chain burned face, and a third who had warily hovered in the back were left. 

The goon who had stayed out of the fight lifted a gun. Started to press the trigger.

Noctis warped forward. Sliding back into this plane of existence a scant few centimeters in front of the man, his claws sliced through a thin button-down shirt. Gut wounds always smelled disgusting but it certainly distracted the goon. Slipping the gun from suddenly lax fingers, it was easy to aim at the remaining two goons who were still staring where he’d been standing a few seconds before. 

A bullet to the head for each of them. Then one for the poor bastard whose ravaged intestines were slipping free to put him out of his misery. 

The rest of the clip of bullets were slammed into the television screen, finally ending cutting off the sight and sound of his Shield being tortured.

The prince took a moment to listen, both for any more goons coming and any breathing from the ones still in the room. 

Quiet save the buzz of the fluorescent lights in the ceiling. 

He lowered the gun in his hand, then tucked it into his Armory. Grasping the chain that stubbornly hung from his right wrist, he absently wrapped it around his forearm as he picked his way around the bodies. His wrists and forearms throbbed, the metal still hot enough to burn even a Dragon stuck in human flesh but he paid it little mind. He had to keep moving, Gladio needed him. The one with the least bloody shirt was stripped of the garment, Noctis shrugging into the button down. It was too big but he sliced off most of the sleeves and did up several of the buttons anyway. Better than walking around in just his fish-printed boxers. Then he picked the corpses for their weapons, quick and methodical, tucking all into his Armory.

Noctis promised himself he wouldn’t let his personal Armory get this empty again. A handful of potions and random junk were all that was currently floating in his corner of the pocket space. No weapons, no bandages, not even a spare set of clothing. After all the times he’d been kidnapped like this, he should really stay better prepared. 

Those mutters about him being a spoiled brat stung for being too close to the truth.

Now sufficiently armed, Noctis crept into the hallway. It was lowly lit, only every third or fourth light humming with electricity in the ceiling. The Bond between prince and Shield lead him unerring to a room several doors down and around a corner. He sent his magic in first, unseen to the eye but letting him get an impression of the space behind the closed door. Gladio in the middle, a focal point of Noctis’s magic buried deep in his bones, _pain-exhaustion-justmakeitgoaway_ that pulsed in Noctis’s soul in resonance. _Lust-glee-hunger_ was the bald torturer behind him, two other _bored-apathy-vaguedisgust_ presences a meter from either side of Gladio.

Pulling a handgun out, the teen took a few seconds to check the amount of bullets left. Swords, knives, polearms, even that annoying scythe he couldn’t get a good handle on - Noctis preferred any weapon over guns. Too loud, too impersonal, too lifeless in his hands. But he had learned how to use them alongside all the other arms just in case he got his hands on one. 

He eased open the door and slid into the room. The smell of blood and pain smacked him in the face, making him bite back a growl. Quickly taking aim, the guarding goons got headshots. Before the deafening sound of the gunshots could fade in the small space, Noctis warped over Gladio’s bowed head.

The torturer got forty-five kilograms of angry Lucis Caelum slammed into him, breath pushed from his lungs as they smacked into the concrete floor.

Part of the Prince- the echo in his blood and magic of over a hundred kings and queens and non-binary monarchs - screamed for blood and agony and vengence. To make this scum suffer for hours like his Shield had suffered. To break his bones and char his flesh and tear his skin, only to heal him and do it in a new variation. To spill his blood until it painted the room and hear him beg for the mercy of death.

But Noctis was hyper aware of his Shield hanging behind him, of the pain that thrummed through their Bond. 

So rather than spend hours ripping him apart like Noctis wished, he slammed the dazed monster’s head against the concrete once twice until he lost consciousness. 

The teen scrambled off the limp but still breathing body. He looked around the room a frantic few seconds. Then he tipped over one of the tables, bloody and clean tools clattering to the floor. It took only a moment to drag it around to stand before Gladio. Back to the unconscious monster’s body to search his pockets - Noctis grunted in victory to find a set of keys. 

Climbing onto the table, Noctis crouched in front of the older teen and murmured, “Gladio, hey, come on, Gladio, wake up.”

It took a few worrisome moments of rambling before the Shield finally grumbled a slurred “F’k off”

Huffing a relieved laugh, Noctis patted his friend’s cheeks. He let his magic curl around the Amicitia, prodded and cajoled with voice and power. “Hey, c’mon, Gladio, open your eyes, big fella.”

* * *

Grimacing, Gladiolus tried to ignore whoever was talking to him. 

He had finally figured out the zen spot. It was like doing kata but not. There was the similar drifting where he didn’t really think, just let his body go. Usually he would focus on his body through the motions with his sword - the pull of his muscles, the breath in his lungs, the steady pounding of his heart. But here he was trying to block out his body, to not feel the aches and throbs and stings. It had taken a while, but he was finally distant from all of it.

And now someone was trying to get his attention.

Touch on his face, light but persistant. 

Words in his ears, coaxing but meaningless noise.

Something other and intangible prodding at him, storm-wind and static and _anxious-impatient-pleading-wakeupwakeupwakeup_ like a cat on his chest patting him with its claws and demanding breakfast -

Wait a minute.

He focused on that Other. A sense that all Amicitia had, borne from generations of serving Lucis Caelums, to feel magic and the nuances that could be carried in it. He was still learning how to hone this ability, to fully understand what it was telling him. And it didn’t help that his prince didn’t like people knowing what he was really feeling which led to not reaching out often with his magic. So Gladiolus didn’t pay as much attention as his father did to the magic murmuring in the Citadel and city - it usually wasn’t his prince so it was just background noise. But he was listening-feeling now.

Noctis was calling him, worried enough to reach out to him with magic as he so seldom did.

It was hard to focus, to make his body obey. But Gladiolus dragged his eyelids upward.

He was rewarded with a relieved smile in a blood spattered face. 

He wanted to hit someone.

“Fucking Baldy lied,” he growled, lifting his heavy head. “Said wouldn’t hurt you.”

Blue eyes blinked, then _realization-fondness-baredfangs-satisfaction_ hummed against his skin. “Oh, most of this isn’t mine.”

Well, that was good. 

Gladiolus got dizzy as he tried to track his prince. The brat had stood up, was saying something but it was so hard to focus. Fingers grasped his forearm, making him twitch and his heartbeat speed up. But not too much, not with _determination-worry-i’mherei’mhere_ murmuring against his soul. 

Pain, jagged and angry, whited out his fuzzy thoughts. Pain and the sensation of movement above his head.

The world jerked back into focus. His face was buried against a slim shoulder. Fingers threaded through his hair and occasionally lightly squeezed the back of his neck. There was a hint of hard claws with those touches - Noctis only let those out when stressed. 

Kidnapped and enemies nearby and an injured Shield - the brat had every reason to be stressed.

Frowning, Gladiolus mumbled in confusion, “Did I pass out?”

“Maybe?” Noctis answered, _relieved-worried_ like a cool hug wrapped around him. “I got the chains off. We need to move. There’s more goons around here. Someone’s going to check on us eventually.”

Grunting in agreement, the Shield tried to find his feet. Sure enough, the shackles were gone. His legs were kinda wobbly but he was upright. Carefully stepping back from the table that was in front of him, Gladiolus blearily looked around. Two dead guards, the streak of blood and brain matter on the wall pointing to headshots. The video camera was still sitting there, little red light mocking him. His arms had been settled in a makeshift sling. Was that Baldy’s jacket -

“Yeah, it is,” answered the younger teen. “Cleanest of the lot.” 

“Should burn it.” He didn’t want anything of the fucker’s touching him. 

“Later.” Noctis lightly touched his hip. “Gladio, c’mon, we need to go.”

Right, getting out of enemy territory. Shackles gone, charge found, now to get to safety.

Shit, his arms, his back, even his chest and head. Everything above his hips just hurt. He couldn’t - couldn’t -

“Noct, Noctis, I’m sorry, I can’t fight like this.”

_Reassurance-grimdetermination-protectyou-ihaveyou_ curled around him. Noctis pressed a steady hand against the side of his neck. It was steady and warm and safe. “It’s okay, Gladio. I just need you to walk, okay. Just walk with me. Can you walk with me?”

Walk? Walk with Noctis? Yeah, he could do that. 

He must have nodded or something because Noct smiled. Then he turned, walked toward the partially open door. Pretty blue crystals flickered around one hand. The other was reached out behind him, reaching for Gladiolus.

So Gladiolus walked with his prince out of the room.

* * *

When asked later, everything after retrieving Gladio was a blur.

Noctis remembered the long walk in snatches.

The gun jumping against his palm as bullets flew from it, managing to hit flesh and sometimes heads with each shot.

Growling like his draconic ancestor as fire roared down the hallway. Dark shadows were goons faltering and falling within his flames.

Murmuring encouragement to Gladio, steadying his Shield while trying to not jar the broken bones and ravaged skin.

Blood hot on his hands, knife left in another body and the enemy too close so he used his claws to rip out another throat.

Arm shaking as he held it straight ahead, shield spell a concave barrier sending bullets ricocheting into the walls. 

The punch of heady relief when they stumbled out the final doors and he saw the night sky overhead.

Copper taste in his mouth as he threw up in an alleyway, adding to the he-didn’t-want-to-know muck on his bare feet. 

A hand gently cupping Gladio’s left elbow, guiding his Shield as they both grew more and more tired.

Someone screamed.

Noctis jerked back a step, adrenaline making his heart pound in his chest. Wide blue eyes flicked around, tracking streetlights, parked cars on the street, people -

Wait, people?

He shook his head a little as he stared at the four civilians standing a few meters away. One was still screaming, the others talking rapidly as they pointed and stared. A man had pulled out a phone - 

A phone.

Noctis stepped forward. “Excuse me? Hi, could I borrow your phone? Just for a minute, I just, I need to make a phone call. Please?”

One of them in a blue windbreaker jacket stepped forward. Noctis reached for the phone he was holding out, paused at the sight of his own bloody hands. Frowning, he paused to scrape as much off as he could on the hem of his stolen shirt. Finally got his hands on the phone. The nice civilian had helpfully left it unlocked and on the dial pad screen. So he tapped in the number he knew better than his own and held the phone to his ear.

It took a ring and a half for the call to be answered.

“Who is this?”

The voice made him smile. “Hey Cor.”

“Noctis?!”

“Yeah, we got out, me and Gladio. Rex Diripio had us in some empty building. Could you come get us? Um, bring medics. We’re at - where the fuck are we? - uh, there’s a bar or something, the Blue Coeurl. And a street sign says forty-seventh street.”

“Alright, I’m on my way. Just sit tight.”

“Great.”

Noctis passed the phone back to the blue civilian. The other one had finally stopped screaming. Looking around, he saw a planter with some sad looking pansies. Nudging Gladio, he shuffled them to the planter and a gentle press on his shoulders got the Shield sitting down. With a near silent grunt, the older teen pressed his face against Noctis’s chest. 

It hurt. Most of him hurt. But that was fine. Cor was coming with medics. 

Noctis petted his Shield’s head and waited.

* * *

Cor was grateful for the MoogleNet.

Otherwise it would have taken much longer to reach that damn coeurl bar.

Even still, the nineteen minutes seemed to take forever. They were just added onto the eight hours since the last confirmed sighting of the prince and young shield - security camera footage from a subway station where Noctis had triggered the panic button on his phone. Which had set off a city wide search for the pair of teenage boys that were his godson and his unofficial nephew. 

Cor hoped that some of the terrorists were still alive. He wanted to punch something and they were worthy targets.

The car came to a smooth halt alongside the pair of ambulances bearing crown medics. Scrambling free of his seatbelt and out the passenger door, the Marshall’s eyes sought out the missing teens. 

They were easy to spot.

The medics had wisely paused a short distance from their patients. Crownsguard including the one who had driven the car were ushering back the double handful of civilians. Everyone allowed Cor to approach first. He was probably the best to do so. Most familiar with the prince. Least likely to get attacked by a stressed Lucis Caelum.

Embers of flame and flickers of crystal swirled in a protective storm around the boys. Gladiolus was slumped into his prince’s chest. The young Shield was shirtless and his back a mess of blood and bruises, a makeshift sling from someone’s clothing cradling his arms against his chest. Noctis was in an oversized button-down shirt, red burns covering on his limbs. His arms and the shirt was absolutely covered in blood, more splatters of dried rust-red dashed across his neck and face. Cor prayed that most of it wasn’t the prince’s - he didn’t hold hope that Noctis came out of the ordeal injury free.

Stepping up to the edge of the storm, Cor stopped when he felt it focus on him. It reminded him of a horrible storm he had gotten caught in down at Cape Caem one mission. Torrential rain, howling wind knocking over trees, lightning and thunder clashing overhead every other minute, waves so tall they leapt up the cliffs to crash against the lighthouse - a breathtaking force of nature. Except this storm had the fierce instincts of a protective dragon owned by a hurt scared teenager growling like thunder. Magic mantled high, examining him closely. He could feel it when Noctis recognized him, the looming pressure of threat pausing then crumpling in on itself, replaced with relief.

When he stepped forward again, the embers and crystals winked out of existence. 

Noctis turned his head as Cor drew in arms reach. The boy was too pale under that grime, eyes not quite focusing. “Hey Cor.”

“Your Highness.” Stepping closer so the other adults couldn’t hear, he pressed a steadying hand on the back of the young one’s neck. “Hey Noctis. I’m here, I’ve got you, little starshine.”

Blue eyes closed, tears glimmering briefly at the edge of eyelashes. Their owner leaned back slightly into the adult’s hold. A breath that stuttered, a brief wince of pain. Then Noctis lifted his chin and reopened his eyes. “Gladio needs the medics. He’s got some broken ribs and his shoulders are a mess. They had him hanging from his arms the whole time. He’s been pretty out of it since I got him down, I don’t know think they gave him any drugs, I didn’t see it, so maybe its a conca - concu - a head wound.”

“Okay, the medics will take care of him,” soothed Cor. Moving his hand down to Noctis’s shoulderblades, he discreetly supported the trembling boy. The other hand beckoned the medics closer. Blue eyes sharpened at the newcomers but the snarling magic didn’t make a reappearance. 

Clearly experienced with growly Lucis Caelums, the medics keep their movements smooth and slow. They examined the young Shield’s back, ignored the prince’s warning growl when their careful prodding made the Amicitia grunt in pain. It took the medics and Cor combined to ease Noctis back from Gladiolus, to convince him to release his protective possessive hold on his friend. Some careful maneuvering later and the older teen was laid out on a gurney. 

Watching his Shield be loaded into one of the ambulances, Noctis murmured, “Okay. Gladio’s safe. Cor?”

“Hmm?” Cor hummed. He caught the eyes of the other medic team.

Too bright unfocused blue eyes blinked up at the man. “I’m gonna pass out now, okay?”

Fond exasperated worry warmed his chest. Cor nodded, “Okay, Noctis. I’ve got you.”

A flicker of a smile, then the prince finally lost consciousness, legs crumpling as he sagged against the man’s chest.

Cor easily scooped up his godson and carried him to the gurney being rolled toward him. 

Damn Lucis Caelums. They always cared too much and ignored that their retinues were supposed to take care of them. The number of times that Regis did this same thing, refusing medical attention and hiding injuries until he was sure Cor or Clarus or, years ago, Cid or Weskham were tended to first. He did not envy Gladiolus and Ignis at all. Not when Noctis was as if not more stubborn than his father.

Now to get the boys home.

* * *

Gladiolus woke to his nose itching.

He tried to reach up to rub it. Pain flared from shoulder to fingertip, making him suck in a breath only to awaken more pain in his back and chest. A restraining hand caught his left bicep.

_Cold fingers gripped his bicep while sharp pain dragged a path on his shoulder. “Hold still, little Amicitia, you don’t want me to color outside the lines, do you?”_

Gladiolus’s eyes snapped open. He jerked his arm closer to his body, trying to get out of the grip. His chest ached fiercely but he couldn’t slow his gasping breaths. 

The hand on his arm vanished. Instead, large palms cupped his cheeks. A face came into view, familiar as his own. 

“Easy, son.” Clarus rumbled. “You’re safe. You’re in the Citadel. You’re safe here.”

Gladiolus squirmed even as his back screamed protest. He needed to look, needed to find - “Noctis? Where’s Noctis?”

“Look to your right, Gladdy.” His father’s hands helped him turn onto his right side. 

There, on a bed just meters away, lay his prince. Bandages were wrapped around his arms and thin clear tubing fed something into his wrist. But if he looked hard enough, Gladiolus could watch the younger teen’s chest move with each breath. A heart monitor was above the head of the bed, a bouncing green line tracking a steady heartbeat.

In his soul, the magic Noctis had bound them with hummed softly in peaceful slumber. 

Noctis was safe.

His dad’s voice rumbled in his ear. “Breathe with me, son. You’re safe. Both of you are safe. ”

It was hard but he tried to obey. His right hand crept up, fingers curling around his dad’s wrist. The other was held by Clarus, the man’s thumb brushing rhythmic strokes against the back of his hand in tempo with their breathing exercise. He couldn’t take his eyes off Noctis. Which was a little ridiculous, his charge hadn’t been tortured like he had.

But it still eased something in him to see Noctis was right there, was alive, was safe.

His heartrate wasn’t quite back to normal when Gladiolus rasped out, “How bad is he hurt?”

A sudden spike of _fury-vengeance-baredfangs_ had him twitching slightly. His gaze jumped from Noctis to the man holding the prince’s right hand. King Regis had his teeth bared in a silent snarl before visibly taking a deep breath. The pressure of the king’s rage seemed to fold back into itself, tucked away to be vented later. Lifting one hand, the older Lucis Caelum reached up and stroked his son’s hair, then returning to holding his child’s limp hand in both his own. 

“Most of his injuries are surface wounds. Burns, bruises, a few cuts from blades or bullet grazes,” Clarus murmured into his ear. “The worst were two bullets lodged in his abdomen. They caused internal bleeding that needed surgery. He’s on the mend though, will be pestering you soon enough. Takes a lot to keep a Lucis Caelum down for long.”

Gladiolus thought he wouldn’t mind the so called pestering to play video games and cutting their training session a little short to nap. 

Still, he had to know... “The guys who took us?”

Clarus rubbed the back of Gladiolus’s head slow and heavy like petting a cat. “Noctis killed most of them. Cor has the last of them locked up for interrogation. Once we pry every bit of intel we can from them, they’ll be executed.”

He nodded slightly. “The - the bald one. He is the one who...” Gladiolus shivered.

The soothing strokes of his hair paused, then resumed. “I know. There’s video footage.” 

Meaning his dad had seen him crying and near screaming. Gladiolus squeezed his eyes shut. “I’m sorry -”

“No,” Clarus cut him off. “You did well, Gladiolus. I’m proud of you. So proud. Everyone breaks under torture, even me, even Cor. Everyone screams and cries and begs for it to stop. But you didn’t compromise yourself or me or Noctis or our family or the crown we serve. You did very well, and I love you.”

Tears leaked out of his eyes. He gripped his dad’s wrist tighter. 

They just breathed together, fathers and sons.

After a small eternity, Gladiolus felt fatigue drag at him. His eyes refused to stay open. His dad’s hands gently turned him onto his back, stroked his hair, wiped the tear tracks on his face. He felt a kiss pressed against his forehead like he was five and scared of the thunderstorms again. 

“Sleep, son. You’re safe. I have you.”

Gladiolus slept.


End file.
